Poem: Seasons of Destruction, Pt. III

With a false face, he wanders unawake—
A sleep ensured by pills;
If he doesn’t wake, I fear a break,
But this is what he wills

Despite all his demands, it’s out of my hands
While he remains so willfully blind;
If he cannot withstand Reality’s demands
Chaos descending is a matter of time

I can only hope his sightless gropes
Lead him out of darkness and shame—
For if my hope is but a joke,
It’s not just himself he’ll maim

I think this goes without saying, but as we live in a world of rampant asshattery, please allow me to state for the record: this is my intellectual property. As such, please do not copy, circulate, edit, alter, take credit for, or otherwise appropriate this material without my express permission. Thank you.

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